


Ramblings On Death and the Lack Thereof

by JinxedForever



Series: Jinx's Overwatch One Shots [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Crying, Depressing, Depression, Disturbing Themes, Duty, Gen, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Honor, Hurt, Hurt Hanzo Shimada, Hurt No Comfort, Jesse McCree & Genji Shimada Are Best Friends, Men Crying, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, Sad, Sad Hanzo Shimada, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Sacrifice, Suffering, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 00:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20200756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxedForever/pseuds/JinxedForever
Summary: An exploration of Hanzo's head space, and his thoughts on suicide. That's it. That's all there is to it.





	Ramblings On Death and the Lack Thereof

**Author's Note:**

> This has the potential to be extremely triggering, and I really don't want to trigger anyone, so please only read this if you're not bothered by suicidal thoughts/notions and an utterly hopeless ending. There is no death. I don't even know why I'm posting this, really, but I wrote it as a vent fic and then went back and edited it and then decided over three hours of work on ramblings might as well be posted, sooooo... here? I'm not really encouraging anyone to read this, but sometimes when I'm feeling shitty, reading shitty things helps me feel less shitty so if this somehow helps, I'll be glad.
> 
> National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
> 
> I hope none of you are feeling this way, but I know it's likely that some of you are. If that's true, please know that you're not alone, and I care about you.

Hanzo sat, his back leaning against the end of his twin bed, a cheap, off-brand beer clutched in the hand hanging limp at his side. That was all Overwatch had to give him to numb the yawning chasm in his chest, a crappy drink and the promise of reconciliation with his science experiment of a brother whose existence he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Hanzo’s gaze drifted up the wall in front of him, loose, knotted hair tousling against the thin comforter, and did nothing to keep the well of blooming tears from streaming down his cheeks and sliding along his jaw to drip to his chest.

He drowned out the rest of the base with a pair of expensive earbuds he’d bought with money he’d received as payment for driving an arrow through a man’s skull. A lilting voice cascaded down a sinking melody, the lyrics a mashup of violent words as an overtone for a wayward soul searching for peace. His lips were dry, cracked, and the salt of his tears bled into them and stung at his nerves.

How could they stand to look at him, when even he couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes in the mirror if only to try and mimic something presentable. How could they welcome him here, the man who’d bled their friend and comrade of his beauty, his body, his life. How could he face another meaningless day with the starving darkness surrounding him from every side, with the eternal guilt of simply breathing gnawing at his functional, natural organs.

Hanzo was intimately familiar with the wish, the hope, the need to be dead, gone from this world, nothing but another name plate in a field of trodden grass, his grave void of offerings for a man who’d made nothing but mistakes since he was thrust into this life. It was pointless, he knew, to entertain such fantasies when the world was so determined to shackle him to the restless beating heart in his sunken chest, an insufferable side effect of his fate as a human being.

What was the point in telling someone of these thoughts, when all they could offer were false platitudes and sympathetic nods, when they couldn’t let him take what he really wanted. They claim suicidal notions are a result of wanting to be happy and not knowing how. They don’t seem to have much to say when he tells them he is happy and he still wants to die. Even when there’s joy in his heart, and the oily blackness of his mind is held at bay and forgotten, he still harbors no desire to remain for one more second on this earth. It’s exhausting, existing at all. Even if his life was overflowing with happiness, cascading over the brim with joy, easy and simple, he’d still rather be buried in the ground.

If only to shield those around him from the grief of having to bury him, he remains, he persists, but he loathes it. He knows that his existence is only one minor part of their lives, no matter how much they insist otherwise, and he knows that they would survive his passing, as they have survived many others, but he can’t bring himself to inflict further pain on people who have sacrificed so much for him, who have cared for him in spite of his misdeeds. So, he suffers. He pushes through the constant, unrelenting exhaustion, the persistent ache of his body, the utter uselessness of his life and his presence.

He can’t bring himself to do the things that would supposedly make his life better, because it would require something of him, and even though he constantly gives everything he has, he’s always being asked for more. He could sacrifice a finger, and they’d ask for his whole arm. He’d give it to them. If only to be loved, to feel wanted, needed, to feel like his suffering was worth something after all, when all he can think to himself is that no one even needs him anyways, so why is he putting himself through it at all.

He watches those in his life that function, that get up and go to work and come home and play for a couple of hours before collapsing and getting up the next day, and he knows he could never do that, as much as the world around him requires it of him. Everything is a struggle. Getting out of bed is a battle he has to win every single morning, and his inability to get proper sleep and get up at a so called “normal” time is met with repetitive, inane, teasing jabs that don’t do anything for anyone in the room. So goes his whole life, an uphill climb that has no summit.

Hanzo will never be anything but a let down, a failure. He could work, and play, and struggle to be the best man he could be, but he would never be enough, no matter how many lies he’s told. A day after he’s been assured he’s enough just the way he is, more is asked of him, more is required of him. He thinks to himself that he lives his life like someone with a disability, but it’s invisible, a joke, so he’s expected to operate like others around him do, and it’s killing him.

Unfortunately, it’s not killing him fast enough.

No matter how good life becomes, he will never not want to die.

They tell him he’s too young to know that, that it’s a naive way of thinking. He thinks they don’t understand, or they do, but their experience is just a sliver different and so it doesn’t apply. He thinks that they hope that is true for him, but no matter how much someone wants something for you, it won’t become a reality if it’s not how your life works.

He wonders if someday they’ll figure out a surgery to physically force you to want to live. He would bet that a lot of people would get excited about that. A way to fix the broken.

Suicide is a crime.

They speak like they know better than he does. Like their experience will be his experience because they thought about killing themselves as he does. They urge him to go to therapy, like talking about how he wants to die will make it so he doesn’t. Therapy will lead to antidepressants. Something to cover up the feeling so he can operate like they want him to. Something to cover up the  _ wrong _ .

Being suicidal, he’s never right. He’s always wrong. He’s inexperienced. He’s mistaken. He doesn’t remember right. He doesn’t know what his life could become. His opinion is invalid. He wouldn’t be better off dead. Death wouldn’t save him from an existence of pretending he wants to be alive when he doesn’t.

He can guarantee that he will never want to live more than he wants to die.

He knows he can’t kill himself.

He knows that if he tried, it wouldn’t do anything but make the spotlight on him all that much brighter. He wouldn’t be able to convince himself to, so he hopes that someone will do it for him, and make it look like an accident. He knows not to. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to.

He can’t seem to reconcile with his body. He can feel the drying tear tracks on his cheeks, but can’t bring himself to care enough to wipe them away. He can’t seem to remember what his face looks like. He knows what he would tell people about his face if asked, but he can’t picture it. There’s an image of him and the rest of the Overwatch team sitting on his desk, just within his view. He doesn’t recognize himself, but he knows which one he is.

In the grand scheme of things, he’s an insignificant blip, a human being. That’s all. He knows it wouldn’t feel that way for his loved ones if he were to die.

Would their suffering would be worse than his if he chose to live?

He wishes he had the power to erase himself from their memories entirely.

He supposes that’s the struggle in the choice.

They say suicide survivors talk about how they regretted the choice the moment they knew they were going to die. Hanzo thinks all he’d feel is relieved, tired, and eager to be gone.

He’s fake. He knows it. He says he feels better after taking things that are supposed to help him, but he still wants to die. He doesn’t really see what that’s such a bad thing.

He’s talked a number of people out of killing themselves. Too many, really, considering his stance on the subject. He thinks they don’t feel the way he does. They don’t feel like killing themselves all the time. They plan their funerals and premeditate plans and talk to their loved ones about the way they feel. He doesn’t. There’s no point, all it does is drive people away, and then his meaningless existence would suck even more than it already does. Besides, there’s nothing they could say that would quell the feeling. The people he’s talked out of suicide tend to feel that way because of something that triggers them. They want to escape a bad situation, or a bad feeling. Hanzo isn’t in a bad situation, he doesn’t ache for happiness, he’s just tired is all, and wants to rest.

The urge to kill himself doesn’t suddenly appear or disappear, it’s a constant buzz that he suppresses with various distractions because it’s pointless to entertain his fantasies. It doesn’t become stronger or weaker. Sometimes he doesn’t think about it, sometimes he does. Regardless of the situation or mood he’s in, you could ask him if he wants to die and the answer would always be yes.

They think he’s doing better. Is there a better in his situation? He is happier in everyday life, but he still wants to die just as much as he always has. He says he’s fine. It’s not a lie. He is fine. This is fine for him. He’s wanted to die for as long as he can remember. The crying is normal, so is the deep chasm in his chest that will never stitch itself back together. He’s fine. What more is there to say?

Hanzo picked himself up off of the floor. He washed his face, threw away the empty beer bottle. He smoothed his hair into a ponytail with deft fingers, took a deep breath, and walked out of his room. He headed to the mission briefing, and continued on as he always did. Genji laughed in his synthetic voice, Jesse wrapped a warm arm around his shoulders. Hanzo smiled. Another meaningless day.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're alive just because of your friends and family, I just want to say that I think you're an incredibly strong individual, and it takes a lot of courage to stay alive even when you don't want to be. I can tell you for certain that they appreciate it, and love you for it, even if they don't tell you that themselves. Stay safe. Make the best out of life.
> 
> National Suicide Prevention Hotline once more: 1-800-273-8255


End file.
